


Distractions

by AdamantSteve



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Get Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Voyeurism, a little bit of UST, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 15:42:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdamantSteve/pseuds/AdamantSteve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Clint or Phil found themselves distracted by the other, and one time the distraction became something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distractions

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by Dunicha.

1. 

 

Phil has really nice pens. He carries one in his right inside pocket, and Clint's watched him pretend not to have it when someone asks to borrow something to write with. They're special. They're weighty and solid; the kind of pen you use to sign Important Things. Clint looked into getting him one for christmas once and balked at the price, but it made sense - you can't wear a $5000 suit and carry a Bic. There're only a few of them anyway, it's not like Phil has a whole stack of them. Clint notices things, see, and Phil takes pride in the little details like that. A nice pen that'll have whoever uses it knowing just by the feel of it that Phil's true and real and honest. 

 

They're not the sort of pens you chew the lids of or lend to people or leave lying around. You keep them in boxes in locked drawers or tucked away in a silk-lined pocket. 

 

Clint watches Phil sign something with a flourish and place it on the stack marked OUT before pulling another toward himself. He reads the report written on it with his soft blue eyes and the pen in his hand comes up to his mouth to rest on his bottom lip. Clint's own reports are forgotten where they lie, and his mouth goes dry watching the man softly suck on the very tip of that expensive pen, all enamel and gold, the white star on the end disappearing til he moves to make a note on the paper. The movement causes him to catch Clint looking and he offers a bland smile. "You need help?" he asks, and Clint shakes his head and smiles. He looks at his own pen. The plastic lid's chewed ragged.

 

2.

 

Clint's up high, eyes on everything, and Phil mills about the lobby of a hotel waiting for the mark to come in. He pretends to read the paper, too distracted by the sensation of being watched by those eyes. Clint tells him, 'nice suit', and Phil hides a smile. A woman comes down in the elevator with a baby in a carriage and Phil imagines unknown fates colliding, the woman screaming ‘My baby!’ and then himself swooping in to save the day, all under the watchful gaze of a man he can't help but want to impress. A performance; a show to prove himself interesting and exciting enough to warrant the attention. Something to make Clint grin. The woman checks out and hails a taxi before disappearing, taking the grand show with her, and Phil writes random letters in the crossword.

 

3.

 

Phil's nails are short and neat, and Clint watches them drum against the beige file in his hands. He wonders what they feel like scratched down skin; a back or a chest or a thigh. He wonders when Phil last put them to such use, cause everyone does that, don't they? Long pink trails down their lover's back? He swallows around the jealousy that thought makes bubble up inside of him. Phil has soft hands, trigger calluses rubbed away by pumice and oil, Clint assumes. He imagines Phil rubbing lanolin into his hands or wearing gloves to bed and almost laughs at the thought, but stops himself, because Phil's asking him a question. He shrugs, always the best response, and Phil rolls his eyes, though Clint thinks it's fond. He hopes it is. 

 

Phil holds out the file and Clint does laugh when he realises what's inside it: a birthday card, and takes the pen Phil holds out. It's warm from the heat of Phil's hand and Clint takes his time printing 'happy birthday' with a little arrow in lieu of a signature. Their fingers touch when he hands it back.

 

4.

 

Fury and Stark argue over something and everyone else chats about this and that while they wear themselves out. Clint is talking to Natasha, facing most of the way away from Phil, silhouetted by the window behind him. He's not in uniform yet, just an old, worn hoodie and a tshirt. The hoodie looks so soft and warm, and Phil thinks of how it felt when he touched it once, giving Clint’s arm a squeeze after a mission gone bad. It sits perfectly over Clint's shoulders, and his head is tipped to one side where he's leaning and listening to Natasha talk. The hair on the back of his neck is neatly cropped, and Phil's fingers itch to run through it, down further to where his skin disappears beneath the drape of the hood. 

 

Phil imagines the warmth of Clint's skin beneath those layers of fabric, the smooth planes of muscle he's long dreamt of soothing his fingers across, and it's only his name being called that draws him out of it, and long years of practice that lets him slip right back into the conversation as if he hadn't been looking at things he shouldn't be looking at and thinking thoughts he should try not to think.

 

5.

 

Clint fills his quiver slowly, taking care to affix each head where it's meant to be, lining up arrows in their proper place. It's a job the techs can do, but he enjoys doing it himself; he's never liked relying on other people for things he can do as well or better. The range is loud, gunfire something Clint's used to but will never enjoy, so he's wearing earmuffs to deaden the sound. Phil gives him a small smile when he comes down for target practice, and Clint feigns surprise at his presence. 

 

Clint can't see the target sheet where he is, but he watches Phil like he does on missions, a warm habit he never minds slipping into. Phil's back makes a neat shape, shoulders and hips precisely aligned, and the shots ring out loud one after another til he reloads and aims again. There's an animal presence to him like this, all his actions pared down and focussed, and Clint can't stop watching. He wants to help Phil, pretend like there's anything he can teach him just so he can touch the white of that crisp shirt, nudge those solid arms where he wants them. And he knows Phil would let him because he always listens to Clint.

 

+1.

 

Clint's fist meets Phil's ribs, and it hurts enough that he forgets to breathe. It was a lazy shot and it shouldn't have got through, but Phil's hopelessly distracted because they're the only two people in the gym, and it's 4am and there's sweat on Clint's neck and his arms and his cheeks are flushed pink. Clint catches him before he stumbles away, and Phil looks at the mat so as not to look at him and give everything away. "Sorry," Clint says, and Phil can't help but glance at his face, keeping his own expression as serious as he can. Clint's still holding onto him and Phil doesn't step back, and he can't stop looking cause Clint's gaze is like a magnet. There's a thumb soothing over Phil's ribs, strong hands keeping him there, right where he wants to be. Clint keeps looking at him and it's gone on too long, so long it's weird, so long Clint's gonna know everything soon enough, but still Phil's stuck there, a bug in honeyed amber. "Sorry," Clint says again, softer and closer, and Phil shakes his head minutely, barely a movement at all. He opens his mouth to say it's fine, or 'hazard of the job' or something glib that'll make sense, but nothing comes out and Clint licks his lips and swallows, still holding on, still that close. 

 

The moment drags on, years and years, and Phil realises his own hands are already touching Clint; one on his chest and the other on his arm, and it feels as good as he's always thought it would. The door could open at any moment, early risers or other nightbirds like themselves that'd break whatever this fragile bubble of dreamspace is, so Phil takes a leap and moves his hand up to that thick neck, watches his thumbnail scratch softly through stubble and hears a hitch in Clint's breath. He licks his lips and before he realises he's done that, Clint's lips are brushing over his before pressing forward.

**Author's Note:**

> The pens are meant to be Montblanc pens but I ended up editing that out. They're ridiculously expensive.


End file.
